


Fuck 'em.

by teamseshcline



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Character Study, Found Family, POV Second Person, Past Sexual Abuse, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 23:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14296188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamseshcline/pseuds/teamseshcline
Summary: Throk believes Lotor is unfit for the throne, that you and your friends are naught but a group of overconfident halfbreeds, that you have no honour. Voltron believes that you’re all just as cruel as Zarkon, that you need to be put down, that you’re dangerous.Your name is Zethrid, and you believe that you should prove them right.





	Fuck 'em.

**Author's Note:**

> Zethrid's backstory + the events of S4 and S5 from her POV.

Bullets and bombs rain down from enemy fire, unrelenting. The inhabitants of Lunar Uet-8 are a race of small, sturdy people armed with primitive machine guns — the advancement of their people driven only by their desire for destruction.

You respect that.

But it wasn’t enough for them. Soon, they began developing space travel — warships that linger outside their atmosphere, sending bombs down onto their own moon. Emperor Zarkon soon took notice and ordered the people’s destruction.

 _“It’s a waste of time, really_. _”_ your teammate once told you over breakfast.  _“These people ain’t never been to space, but they’re building warships on a crappy little moon? I think we should be asking them for some tips; maybe call a treaty.”_

You’re not in a situation where you can agree; the slaughter of innocents is the only thing keeping you off the streets. The empire is structured in such a way that one must be born into luxury (a quiet life of space malls and yuppers, how boring). Otherwise, one must serve the empire in whatever way possible, or risk a life of fighting for scraps.

_Or you could rebel._

There’s a new threat, a tank - operated by some hotshot _twat,_ has taken an interest in your squad. You growl, the first to step forward. You look back to your teammates, the youngest of whom’s guns shaking in clawed hands. You’re the oldest, the meanest, the bestest. You know what to do.

Victory or death.

* * *

“Hey there, soldier~” Commander Nethok puts a hand on his chin, leaning forward. “What’s a pretty young thing like you doing in my office at this hour?”

His breath reeks of alcohol and you suppress a growl; you’re not pretty, but nonetheless you put on a smile and salute.

“Vrepit sa, sir, I came to see you regarding a promotion.”

Nethok raises an eyebrow. “A promotion? What for?”

You swallow. “I got a bodycount of fifty-three just in the past two movements. I- I’ve displayed exemplary behaviour; kept my head down and only done what was asked of me, sir. I’ve been stuck in this position for decaphoebs, while my teammates are able to progress through the ranks and —”

Nethok puts his finger to your lips, a dangerous move.

“Private Zethrid Hyder, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve heard about you; you’re half Kzeral?”

He’s wrong, you’re Kythrian on your late father’s side, but to correct him would be equally as dangerous.

“Yes, sir.”

“Half-breeds, always demanding shit for free. But I could consider it, you’re Galra enough where it matters,” his eyes flicker down to your chestplate - _disgusting._  “I’m afraid I can’t hand promotions out for free, private.”

“I know.”

“But we could come to some sort of arrangement, how ‘bout a few favours?” He licks his lips and _you don’t like that one bit._

“I’ve done all that’s necessary! What else is there?” Your voice cracks, you know exactly what he’s talking about.

“Let you go, I suppose, if you’re uncooperative. You were quite a handful when you first joined, you know.”

Your eyes widen. You have no family, no friends, and nowhere to go. The military is all you have left. Clenching your fists, you sigh and prepare yourself for the worst.

“I’ll do anything, sir.”

* * *

He kicked you out anyway.

* * *

_You’re one of the lucky ones,_ your mother once told you, _the empire looks down on hybrids._ You’re a disgrace, a show of an honourable galra succumbing to lust and going to bed with an _animal._ But you? you are different - you are just Galra enough. You are big and strong and violent yet a still _halfbreed_ ; you’re exotic and alien. People can grab onto your ears, your eyes sparkle like topaz, and your roar can be heard for _miles_ away. _Men like that, Zethrid, they really do! Use it to your advantage._

Your mother tried her best for you, but she never learned to let go of the empire’s prejudices. It would be her downfall when the Blade of Marmora came knocking, and honestly? You're not surprised to hear she got caught in the crossfire.

So when a drunken civilian ignores your well-practised scowl and grabs your ears from behind, whispering about how ‘cute’ you are, _you snap._ You flashback to that first time your classmate leered and called you a halfbreed; to when you cried on your mother’s shoulder that night and she offered no comfort; to the next morning when you broke his teeth and it worked.

Before you understand what you’re doing, glass shatters and an alien barman ducks and people are screaming _and you love it._

“Oooh~ is that another hybrid? She’s feisty!” you hear amidst the chaos, a voice strikingly chipper among galran accents. But you ignore it, _fuck ‘em._

“You want me? You want some of this?” you bellow at the civilian. You hold a chair above your head, stretching out the precious few moments between the threat and the attack.

“Yes, if you’re looking to fight” comes an accented voice from behind you - _a newcomer._  You turn to see three figures in matching blue and orange armour: Prince Lotor, his purple skin and bright white hair unmistakable even for you, with his generals standing either side. You should bow, beg for mercy, _beg for your life._  But you have nothing to live for.

“Finally, a _real challenge."_

* * *

Lotor gave you a uniform and weapons, a family and a home, freedom and respect. In return, you pull him into a bone crushing hug, promising to do whatever he wanted — _no questions asked._

* * *

You’ve made teasing Kova into a game, you like to test the limits of how far Narti will allow you to go before one of them snaps. You’re doing quite well, Kova quite happily bats at the string you ripped off from your civvies, and Narti doesn’t react. Overhead the ship’s control panel, a hologram opens up and Kova digs his claws into Narti. Narti’s voice comes as a wordless yelp inside your head.

“Sorry,” you shrug, doing your best to appear apologetic.

“Zethrid, please.” — Of course, Acxa is here to ruin the fun — “We must pay respect to the high priestess.”

You know she has no respect for the witch, none of you do. But to ignore her would be a surefire way to get yourselves killed. And with that, you and Narti mimic Acxa’s traditional salute.

“Haggar,” says Lotor, the only member of the group not standing to attention. He’s Zarkon’s son, he can afford to be cocky. “What do you want?”

“Emperor Zarkon has fallen ill.”

Lotor narrows his eyes, “Is that so? I was led to believe my father was defeated by Voltron. Such a shame, to be beaten by his own lion; you told me he was stronger than that.”

You repress a smirk, taking pleasure in Lotor’s own quiet brand of insolence — subtle and sweet, drenched in kind words with a hidden meaning. Had you been confident enough to talk back to the witch, you would tell Haggar to fuck off instead.

“I’ll be at his bedside to ensure his recovery.” replied Haggar, paying no attention to Lotor’s backhanded insult.

“And?”

“You must rule the empire in his place.”

Lotor furrows his brow in response to the witch — it’s only a pretence. The five of you are looking to destroy the empire from within, to bring about a new era of change. Prince Lotor as emperor pro-tem makes such a daunting task so much easier.

You look to Narti and frown. “What about us? Uh... my lady... high priestess?”

Haggar doesn’t even turn to face you. “Continue to serve the empire as you always have. Lotor, I expect to see you at central command within a movement. Vrepit sa.”

The hologram closes, and your team is once again left alone. Only vargas ago, the atmosphere on the ship was warm and welcoming — now, it is cold and alien and you let out a growl.

Clapping her hands together, Ezor makes an attempt to diffuse the tension. “You know what this means?”

“What?” you say, voice softening for your friend.

“We’re going on a roadtrip!”

* * *

Throk believes that Lotor is unfit for the throne, that you and your friends are naught but a group of overconfident halfbreeds, that you have no honour. Voltron believes that you’re all just as cruel as Zarkon, that you need to be put down, that you’re dangerous.

You believe you should prove them right.

* * *

“Hey, look at this!”

Suplexing yet another piece of metal, you wink in Narti’s direction.

Narti puts a hand to her forehead, shaking her head in mock disapproval. But Kova watches you nevertheless, bright eyed and unblinking. Don’t play coy, Narti, we all know your tricks.

“Zethrid -” Lotor finally speaks up, “please, get back to work.”

“No can do, boss. Your blueprints don’t match up to the ship, it’s too confusing.”

“That’s because you’re not listening.” he says, as though it’s a living thing.

“Listening to who?” you frown.

“Sincline, of course.”

“With all due respect, it’s a hunk of metal, sir.”

“And that ‘hunk of metal’ is the same material used to create Voltron. Listen carefully, and you can hear it speaking — it’s like a commanding whisper in the back of your mind. King Alfor went through this same process over ten-thousand years ago.”

You would ignore the fact that Acxa had said the very same thing only a few quintants ago, but you’re working on a ship that transcends reality with your immortal boss and your psychic friend. Fuck it, it's best to just ignore how strange the universe is.

“You sound like Narti after five pints and a joint.” you say, thumping his back.

Lotor, tiny compared to you, momentarily loses his balance.

At the same time as Narti lets out a hiss (whether at your dig or the perceived threat to Lotor’s health, you don’t truly know), Lotor regains his balance and laughs. There’s a moment of silence before Ezor and Acxa start bickering from within the ship.

“Should we go see what they’re up to, sir?”

Lotor looks to the pile of scrap accumulated where you had been standing.

“I think it would be beneficial to take a break, don’t you?”

 _Five pints and a joint?_ comes Narti, choosing just the right moment to rejoin the conversation.

“Hell yeah, I got a stash of —”

“No, not tonight, we need to keep a low profile. I get the feeling that the witch is growing suspicious of us.”

You smile nonetheless; you’re with your friends, that’s enough for now.

“Spoilsport.”

* * *

Zarkon is alive.

“How did they find us?”

The bombs won't stop.

“We must have been tracked!”

* * *

“I’m sorry, sir.”

You don’t want to do this.

“It’s nothing personal.”

Except, in a way, it is. Narti is dead.

“This is our only way out.”

If Lotor could have stayed calm for just a few ticks longer, Narti would be at your side. But he didn’t. Lotor let rage and fear blind him and now Narti is dead, and you — _you told him they had been tracked._

 _Oh god,_  if you had just kept your mouth shut, she’d be here.

“You plan to give me up? I understand, Zethrid.” — Lotor’s voice is soft, you want to forgive him. — “You do what you must, _and I’ll do what I must."_

Before you can even comprehend him, you hear the sound of bones cracking through the comms, and suddenly you’re being ejected from your own ship.

_How the fuck did he do that?_

* * *

Narti is dead, Ezor is crying, and Acxa has a plan. You like that about Acxa — she’s stiff and awkward and a killjoy when she wants to be, but she _always_ has a plan.

* * *

Detention Base Alpha-X11 is home to only 56 prisoners. They’re scientists, world-leaders, aliens that the empire could not afford to lose. They were treated to food, water, and a life of materialistic comforts in exchange for their cooperation; an experiment or some cultural insight, here or there — all thanks to Lotor.

But Lotor isn’t here; _you are._

You grab the nearest prisoner by the scruff of his neck ( _he’s an engineer from somewhere in the Tybliu Astroid Belt, not much of a biologist though_ , Acxa would later tell you). He yelps, struggling to get away from you, and his fellow prisoners slowly back away.

“Where’s the human?” you shout.

“I.. I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

_Pathetic._

“Where. Is. The. Human? Old. Frail. Altean lookin’. His name is Something Holt.”

_You don’t have time for this._

“Samuel Holt? Prisoner 49?” — Thank the goddess, he has _some_ brains left in him. — “I can lead you to him... if- if you let me go. Please!”

You grunt and drop him on the floor.

“Move!”

He flinches at you, but stands up anyway. You jab your gun into his back, and he hurriedly makes in the direction of a nearby hallway. If only Narti were here — one touch of the prisoner's skin and she would extract all the information you’d need.

But Narti isn’t here, you are.

* * *

For a brief moment, Acxa’s plan was working. Then the paladin hugged her father. Then you were crashing.

Now you're stuck in a prison cell of your own, awaiting an execution that will never come.

* * *

“How come they didn’t kill him?” asks Ezor, voice burning with curiosity.

“Dunno,” you shrug, “Acxa, you’re all buddy-buddy with the red paladin, aren't ya? You got an explanation for this?”

“I’d hardly say me and Keith are _friends."_

“You know his name,” Ezor points out, “that’s pretty friendly.”

“He spared my life, Ezor.”

“Is sparing their enemies their thing? They got Lotor on their side, they let _you_ live, and now we’re stuck looking for Sendak. All because Team Voltron can’t man up and kill someone.”

Ezor giggles, her laugh like bells amongst the loud gusts of wind.

You decide, that if you get to make your friend laugh, you’d keep your rant going. “Like, all of this could have been over if they weren’t pussies. They had to get Lotor, the pussiest person I know, to kill Zarkon. How pathetic is that?”

“Zethrid.” Acxa says, more of a reflex than actual annoyance - but she doesn’t tell you to stop.

“What? You hate this as much as I do.”

Acxa smiles, it’s hidden by her tinted helmet but _you know_ it’s there. “If you want the truth, yes, I do. But I didn’t whine about it for an entire three quintants after, _nor_ did I complain to Haggar’s face.”

You can’t help but grin, you soften your voice. “Yeah, you got me there.”

“Guys!” Ezor yells, a clawed finger pointed to a blue and purple figure in the snow, “Is that a cryopod over there?”

Acxa’s eyes widen. “That must be the anomaly on our scanners.”

“Do you think it's him?” Ezor says.

“It has to be.”

“So you’re telling me,” — Uh oh, you’re back on it again — “that Team Voltron gave Sendak a fucking cryopod? They defeated Zarkon's right hand man, _and healed him?”_

This time, for the first time in a long time, Acxa actually laughs.

* * *

Blood is shed for the Kral Zera, honourable galra succumbing to bloodlust for only a glimpse of the flame. Bonds are broken and allyships no longer mean anything. You hesitate to join the fight; the witch has her champions and you’re not one of them.

But then Trugg aims her weapon at Haggar, and the three of you are swept into the chaos. _Because Lotor just had to fuck things up, didn't he?_

You should be enjoying the battle, but you just want to go home.

* * *

“I’m bored.” Ever childlike, Ezor lifts her head up. “How long are we gonna drift here?”

“Until Haggar decides what our next move is.” Acxa replies, arms folded.

“While she’s out there doing her magical pondering, we could be out there conquering.” You clasp your hands together for effect. “The whole empire is in chaos! We play our cards right and we have a nice little territory of our own.”

“You think we could replace Lotor as emperor?” says Ezor.

“Who knows? If we start taking the other commanders out one-by-one, we could be the last ones standing.” The idea has been floating through your head for awhile now. Hell, you could start right here, there are two of them listening in just a metre away!

“No one is replacing Lotor.” She’s bitter. You know Acxa is talking about more than just his emperorship, but you don't push it. “We just need to wait for orders from Haggar.”

You hang your head in shame, before bright blue eyes look at you.

“You wanna go throw things at the crew?”

You smile - it’s not the same as a real fight, but Ezor knows exactly how to cheer you up. Besides, just yesterday, a waggly-toothed engineer looked at you funny — and like a schoolyard bully, you had to go teach him a lesson.

“Yes!”

* * *

You’re back at square one: broke, sad, and completely lost. Halfbreed trails behind you, accompanied by stares that last a second too long. You have nowhere to go and a vendetta against those in power.

But this time you’re not alone, you have Ezor throwing rocks by your side, grinning madly; Acxa driving you forward with stern words and an unspoken promise of protection; and the persistent memory of Narti, never fading.

_That’s enough for now._


End file.
